


and if there's any love in me, don't let it show

by gumbridge



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumbridge/pseuds/gumbridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat is sad and SGRUB sucks, but it ain't all bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and if there's any love in me, don't let it show

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on the [Tumblrs](http://bathearst.tumblr.com/post/11218948371/for-the-300-words-fic-meme-tanya-asked-for-karkat), for a request made by [Tanyart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart).

These are the things Karkat Vantas tells himself: he is strong, he is a hatched leader, when he grows up he will be a threshecutioner. Leaders do not show weakness in mind or body; they lead by whatever means necessary, force or fear or respect; Karkat will prove foremost among them.

These are the things Karkat Vantas tells himself, and does not believe.

Karkat knows himself to be weak, he knows himself to be hatched to nothing but the culling of an aberration in the pack, he knows he will never grow up. He does not have the inner strength to lead by force or fear or to command the respect of his peers.

These are the things Karkat Vantas knows, and refuses to admit.

He winds himself tight, shoulders hitching higher and knuckles pushing white through his skin. The harsh smudges of shadow under his eyes deepen. He spends his nights cycling through gates and worlds and alchemized weapons, and his days curled up at his skittering, chittering husktop, stabbing at the keys till his nails wear down to nubs. He prods and commands and bullies, bluffing his leadership on a bad hand, teetering ever more precariously on a miniature hive built of stiff rectangular pieces of plasticized paper. It eats at him, wears a hole in the centre of him, stiffens his muscles and keeps him from slipping into his recuperacoon. It's always one more thing after another, one last crisis to fix, puzzle to solve, ogre to cull.

There are too many things to hold all in his mind at once: the things he has to do, the things his eleven teammates are doing, the things he has to be, the things he believes, the things he tells himself to make it through the night.

Still, though: it isn't all bad. There are a few nights where he forgets himself enough to unwind his shoulders, let his hackles settle, nights when the deep furrow between his eyebrows smooths itself out almost entirely.

The first night he spends on Kanaya's land, hunting frogs, is one of them. She's calm and competent enough to not need shouting at to do her job, and their conversation over Trollian as Kanaya sits in her lab and directs Karkat towards frogs is a slow, relaxed one. Karkat's canvas shoes are soaked and green water squelches unpleasantly between his toes; the last frog, blue and fat enough to need to be carried in two hands, pissed on his shirt; and the skin under his eyes is hot and aching from a lack of sleep – his head hasn't hit sopor for half a perigee and more, by now.

But Maryam's on the line, and the amount that helps is just shy of ridiculous, or would be, if Karkat managed to admit it to himself.

A tiny jewel-toned frog, purple and iridescing in the half-light, jumps three feet straight in the air to his left and Kanaya exclaims at him over the husktop, excitement coming through despite her carefully measured tone; _that one_ , she says, _that one is important, catch it._

Karkat trots after the thing, silent but for the mushy noises coming from his socks. It traps itself between two huge roots, and Karkat covers it with his palms, easy as anything. Kanaya voices her approval, and Karkat – Karkat tucks his chin into his chest, turns away from the husktop and its camera, and lets the smile pull his muscles into uncommon shapes. The frog squirms, damp and slick against his skin, and Karkat almost laughs at the sensation. He schools his expression, his shoulders come back up, and he turns to hold the frog up to the viewport.

"This frog meddled enough with for your purposes, miss Fussyfangs?" he asks.

 **GA: Quite Enough Thank You  
GA: You Had Better Release It Before It Too Decides To Vacate Its Bladder On Your Clothing**

Karkat releases the frog from the cage of his fingers and it leaps off him, tiny muscles pushing against his hands for leverage. Karkat's hands are smeared with mud and algae, green and brown over grey, and he wipes them off against the front of his pants.

These are the things Karkat Vantas knows: the game is hard and long and his teammates are, for the most part, the most irritating pieces of shit he has ever had the lack of privilege to know. He is, nevertheless, luckier than he could ever have hoped to be, in the arena of friendships. They will win and they will enter the world they will create and be as gods, and Karkat will be able, maybe, to stop leading like a bully and start leading like a friend.

These are the things Karkat Vantas knows, and believes with as deep a conviction he is able to muster.


End file.
